


Have a Hair-Raising All Saints’ Wake!

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Established Relationship, Hair Kink, Halloween, M/M, Maybe Magic Maybe Mundane, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexy Usage of Game Mechanics, Topping from the Bottom, no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 01:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: In which Sanson exercises various coping devices for dealing with the antics of handsome bards and the Continental Circus.





	Have a Hair-Raising All Saints’ Wake!

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been three whole years since I wrote seasonal Halloween smut and I decided I wanted to try again this year! I would recommend Seasonal Holiday Smutty Fanfiction Writing to anyone, btw. It’s super fun.

Sanson Smyth did not approve of the Continental Circus.

Every year, just as the last green leaves in the Black Shroud turned pumpkin-orange, so did they show up with their own pumpkin cakes and cookies and candies, their caricatures of bats, cats, ghosts and ghouls, and an entire mansion’s worth of glittering glamour-games, and he didn’t trust a single crumb or crease of the whole caravan. It was _obviously_ some kind of trap—every Wailer and Adder with sense agreed—but the infuriating thing was that the people of Gridania delighted in their antics all the _more_ for it! No matter how clearly they were up to no good, nothing ever seemed to stick to the slippery bastards, and so, despite Sanson’s quite severe misgivings, every year he was forced to endure their nonsense, and this year was sure to be the most trying of all.

Because, you see, Guydelot couldn’t get enough of them.

“Is this _really_ necessary?” Sanson groaned, holding a pumpkin-head mask and regarding it with skepticism.

“Abso_lute_ly.” Guydelot’s voice was smugly satisfied (albeit muffled) behind his own white pumpkin mask. “It’ll get you into the proper frame of mind for All Saints’ Wake.”

‘Proper’ and ‘All Saints’ Wake’ didn’t belong in the same sentence together, by Sanson’s estimation, but instead he raised a different objection. “I can’t wear it—the Adventurer’s Guild contact—”

“What about him?”

“—will think the Adders aren’t taking him seriously.”

“Well, we’re not—”

“_You’re_ not,” Sanson corrected him. “_I_ happen to fully agree that the Continental Circus is up to something.”

“The same thing they’re up to every year, Sanson. We plebs call it ‘having fun.’” Guydelot’s delivery was breezily unconcerned, and he took advantage of his long limbs and gangly frame to reach around and take Sanson’s mask, opening up the back of it for him.

“Look—Guydelot, the Adventurer’s Guild is short-handed enough with everyone _else_ skiving off to—to—have fun, or—” Sanson steadfastly ignored how Guydelot snickered at his own lack of eloquence and pressed on, “so if you can’t do anything but further demoralize the man, then—”

This time Guydelot gasped theatrically. “Doth mine own long ears deceive me? Have I really heard Sanson the Stiff advise his own man to play hooky?”

Pink-cheeked, Sanson rolled his eyes. But if Guydelot was determined to put words in his mouth... “Well, Rosy has already agreed to help—properly, and she’s familiar with how they operate. So _your_ help, strictly speaking, isn’t necessary.”

Guydelot made an affectionately derisive sound. “If our mutual friend has made it her business, neither is yours.” And considering the vast list of accomplishments Rosy Rhubarb had under her belt, Sanson would have had to concede that point to Guydelot. “So come on, pull that stick out from up your arse, and let your hair down.” He paused a beat. “—I meant that literally, the mask won’t fit over your tail.”

For a moment, he wavered—but if he was nothing else (and occasionally he worried he wasn’t) Sanson Smyth was a man of his word. “Sorry, Guydelot. I’m already committed.”

Now Guydelot’s huff was honestly disappointed in tone, and he folded his arms over his chest. “You know, it won’t kill you to change things up. Hairstyling has never been cheaper.”

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with a tail,” Sanson protested. “It’s sensible, and practical—”

“And boring.”

Sanson had been meaning to go on, but something about the way Guydelot delivered that line stung. Really, he _liked_ his hair, and the idea that his lover wouldn’t...

“_Anyroad_, I’ll let you know if we _need_ you.” Sanson mustered his best imitation of Guydelot’s disdainful diffidence and received the mixed satisfaction of perceiving that the barb had hit home—Guydelot tensed just as Sanson turned smartly on his heel, marching off into the Central Shroud.

And as it turned out, his sullen, stubborn self-satisfaction at that parting jab was not properly enough to sustain him in his assistant vigilance around Bentbranch. Even though, Sanson argued fiercely with himself, even though in that case Guydelot objectively deserved it, to say nothing of all the interest the bard’s own barbs had surely accrued over all the moons they’d known each other—somehow he still felt guilty. Which was_ ridiculous_.

There was, Sanson firmly assured himself, nothing _wrong_ with wearing his hair in a tail. Nothing whatsoever. He could list the numerous virtues of that hairstyle, if he wanted to—in fact, he just _might_.

Because, looking around at the darkening and increasingly deserted groves around Bentbranch, he really didn’t have anything better to do. By the Matron’s own apron-strings, the Adventurer’s Guild representative hadn’t been exaggerating how many of Gridania’s local adventurers were, well... _slacking off_. Hunts remaining unhunted, culls unculled, ripe and verdant and valuable greenery left on the vine, and no sign of Rosy anywhere... Sanson almost couldn’t believe his eyes. Maybe he _would_ need Guydelot’s help after all.

But then, even if he did, that would necessarily mean he had to go and _ask_ for it. And considering how he’d left him, returning with his metaphorical tail between his legs... No, the defense of his actual tail probably was the more useful use of his time just then. Pretending he wasn’t remotely sheepish at the prospect, Sanson leaned into a tree and jotted quickly into his own personal notebook _virtues of a tailed Hairstyle_.

_Item one: pragmatic_. If one wore his hair long, as Sanson did, it was impractical to keep it down and still otherwise—_Item two: hygienic_. Otherwise it would get dirty, and it’d result in more time spent in—_Item three: economic_—Sanson hummed to himself in pleased consideration for a moment, then added indented underneath this _a. as regards Time_, immediately followed by _b. as regards Money_—he only needed to trim it once or twice a year and surely _that_ beat Guydelot’s coloring maintenance budget hollow! And what’s more—_Item four: attractive_.

It was true, he was sure of it. Not _boring_. Of course it was true it wasn’t exciting or innovative or fancy, but when he pulled it back in the mornings, leaving some locks to frame his face just so, he knew it was his best feature, and when he brushed it out in the evenings, finding it soft under his fingers was his reward for the care he’d put into it. Let Guydelot say what he wanted, _he_ had no idea—

The ahriman was on him before he knew what was happening. One second he was snapping his notebook shut, the next he was gazing into one massive eye, then one massive flash of light. Sanson didn’t even have time to cry out.

...Or at least, he _shouldn’t_ have. Because as he was blinking his vision back, multicolored jack-o-lanterns fading from the periphery, he couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t being torn to shreds. Instead—instead he could hear the ahriman fluttering back away, and he got only a glimpse of a red-haired Roegadyn rider on its back(?) before it vanished back into the gloom.

...Well, then. Feeling rather perplexed and wrongfooted, Sanson remained blinking in the grove. “What in all the realm...?” The woods had no answer but the lingering sense of something _changing_. And when he shook his head in one last bid to clear it and banish the last of the pumpkin-shaped blotches for good, Sanson felt his hairtie snap and his now-loose hair spread over his shoulders.

With a muttered curse, he groped in his pockets for a spare, but found none—nor were the remnants of the snapped tie in his hair or caught on his back or even anywhere on the ground surrounding him. Strange... or perhaps not. It _was_ getting darker, earlier—yes, that was what autumn was all about. Past time for him to be heading back to town, back indoors... so, shouldering his lance, that was precisely where Sanson headed.

And it occurred to him as he walked, that he was going to have to admit that Guydelot had been right. Asides from the strange business of the playful ahriman, not a thing untowards had happened the entire evening he’d been out. _Waste of a perfectly nice night..._ Sanson thought to himself, as he pushed his hair behind his ears. But maybe he could... salvage it, somehow? Find some way to salve his pride at the same time, maybe.

In the distance, the green lights of the Carline Canopy were just becoming visible, but... intuition told Sanson that Guydelot wouldn’t be there tonight. Perhaps any old night, but this night was special, wasn’t it? The circus was in town. And, shockingly—Sanson wanted to go.

He wound a lock of his hair around one finger as he pondered this desire, as the mental image of the worried Adventurers’ Guild contact receded to the background while Guydelot came to the foreground. The bard was sure to be found amidst the revels, and—he owed Sanson. Interest, after all. And Sanson had promised that if he needed Guydelot—

That thought made him stop in his tracks, his brow creasing in consideration—consternation? Was he really thinking he needed Guydelot? After the way they’d parted this afternoon? And he was perilously close to coming to his senses, but just then, the breeze picked up, blew his hair across his face and a familiar voice to his ears: Guydelot, obviously flirting, and with someone that just as obviously wasn’t him.

On any other night, Sanson might’ve been angry, or jealous, even as he knew deep down, beneath his playfulness, Guydelot was loyal. But on this night, he actually smiled, shaking his hair back out.

This all was giving him an _idea_.

The “house of glamours” wasn’t far from where Sanson was, but still it must have been the luckiest breezes ever to have carried Guydelot’s voice such a distance. By the time Sanson caught sight of him, Guydelot was deploying his storied charm on a pair, a young elezen woman with her hyuran boyfriend, and all three seemed to be having an amicable time as they waited for the Continental Circus bouncer to allow them entry—and another stroke of luck (good or ill? impossible to tell) that Sanson had arrived when he did, because just after recognizing them, they were ushered in.

Hrm. Sanson chewed at his lip, frowning as he approached the front porch. No one besides the bouncer seemed to be there—how long would he have to wait to gain entry? and now, his plan was in need of revision already...

“Need company, love,” remarked the bouncer, who looked to be a big duskwight made larger by his cloaked costume, and it took a moment for Sanson to parse whether he meant it as a command or an inquiry—when Sanson checked his face it was impressively yet invitingly ambiguous, pumpkin-orange shimmer along his cheekbones up to his eyes, flashing in the low light as he winked.

“Company just went inside, love,” Sanson returned—and on impulse he winked back.

And to that, the duskwight smiled widely, then quickly pushed him inside and closed the door shut behind him. With a cheeky grin, Sanson pushed his hair to lie dramatically, and followed the echo of Guydelot’s boots, aiming to catch up just before the hall proper where the glamour artists worked their clever disguises.

It was easy to tell which it was—the one from which rose the greatest clamor, and not just of voices but of magicks and prisms, inordinate jingling of an unlikely amount of finery and armor (illusory though it was). Inside, Sanson knew, there would be dozens of likenesses Eorzea’s finest heroes, villains, and celebrities—and he had to hurry, because if Guydelot joined their ranks it’d be all the harder to properly find him.

Fortunately, as before he waited in queue with those he’d been flirting with, easily personable as he discussed whose face would be drollest to wear. “Not Estinien—gods, can you imagine it, the Azure Dragoon _singing_—”

Both of his companions giggled. “I hear his voice is so hoarse, it’d be more—”

“—More like croaking, aye.” The woman’s smile was sparkling with mischief. “The Lord Speaker, though...”

“What about him?” Guydelot sounded a little petulant, and Sanson saw his opportunity.

“Jealous, hm?” Shamelessly he inserted himself into their conversation, as shameless as Guydelot had been to flirt with others when he had a lover of his own—a shamelessness now that Sanson’s little plan depended upon entirely. “Just because he’s _that_ handsome?”

What Guydelot saw then would have been a young hyur man, long dark hair raked to one side, partially obscuring his face but matching well his dark undershirt and plain brown trews (all traces of Twin Adders colors he had left on a coat rack). What Guydelot saw, Sanson had guessed, he wouldn’t fully recognize in the low light and low context. And what Guydelot saw, he _liked_.

“I have nothing against handsome men,” Guydelot said to Sanson, interest, intrigue—self-consciously inappropriate familiarity—clear in his tone. “Only that they hold something against _me_.” The double-entendre was clear, and behind him the couple shared a glance.

“Is that so?” And, without further ado, Sanson stepped up to Guydelot, pulled him down by his shirt, and kissed him hard, holding him tight against his chest, precisely as directed.

“_Mmmf_—” Evidently this had taken him by surprise, but Sanson could still identify the frisson of delight, electric and lovely, that had animated his initial reaction before he pulled away (but his hands came to rest on Sanson’s shoulders, almost like hedging). “Mmf—you _are_ a handsome devil—I’ve got one of my own—”

“Yes,” Sanson said, “I know.”

“Ooh,” Guydelot said playfully, “you do...?!” It was possible to, from the pitch of his voice alone, confirm the exact fraction of a second in which he realized exactly who he had been kissing—“_Sanson?!_”—which Sanson did with no small amount of relish.

“Mmhm.” Guydelot still couldn’t construct proper words in response to this revelation, let alone save face. In the background, the other elezen and hyur couple made themselves scarce. “In the flesh.” It was a rare thing, to see Guydelot’s ears go this red, and Sanson thoroughly enjoyed it.

“I—_Sanson_, I—” He was, however, slowly growing more capable of speech, and with it remorse, regret, none of which served Sanson’s interests at the moment. Maybe in the morning, when he did up his hair again, maybe when the circus had moved on, leaving Gridania behind. Not tonight.

“Come on.” He backed off Guydelot but retained his hold on the other man’s well-loosened collar, to pull him along with—and evidently Guydelot believed they would be leaving the manor entirely, as he began apologizing.

“I’m sorry—let’s go back, your place, and let me...” He trailed off when Sanson marched them both _past_ the exit, then abruptly turned a corner, opened a door, and dragged him inside a littlecloset, not bothering to close the door behind.

“I’m not _mad_, Guydelot,” Sanson said, and he meant it to be soothing, conciliatory, but... “Well—maybe a little.” And then he smiled, toothy and bright, and judging by Guydelot’s awed expression he agreed.

“What happened to your hairtie?” was what Guydelot eventually managed to ask, the first coherent sentence he’d managed since Sanson had confronted him that evening.

“Do you really care that much?” was the question Sanson posed to him—answering as well by walking his fingers up Guydelot’s front to his first fastened button, tugging playfully at it.

“No,” Guydelot admitted, a grin (though not quite a cocky one) returning to his face. “So... a closet?” One eyebrow was cocked, but nonetheless he was eagerly obeying Sanson’s direction, opening his shirt fully.

“I know for a fact you don’t care about that.” Guydelot’s own figure was not as muscular as Sanson’s but he doubted he’d ever have his fill of its lithe qualities, of the wiry strength under the illusion of curves and softness, and under his hands so _very_ responsive.

“You’re wrong there—” And Guydelot, boldly, had slid both his long-fingered hands under Sanson’s trews, to cup his arse and make him yelp— “I’m _really fucking into this_, Sanson—”

“Guydelot!” And Sanson may have yelped like that no small number of times when they laid together, but never before had he done thusly: pushed his partner down firmly, from leaning back against the wall to thin arse flat on the ground. “You really have no manners, do you?”

Before Guydelot could recover Sanson had stepped astride him, sinking down on knees spread wide, and gratified in the extreme to see his lover looking between his face and the bulge in his trews with jaw-dropped reverence.

“What _happened_?” Guydelot asked, flatly astonished.

“I just decided I _needed_ you after all,” Sanson said, voice low as he began working the laces of Guydelot’s trousers. ...He fumbled once. “That’s not a problem?”

Guydelot was immediately helping him. “I was wondering if I could make it happen _more often_, Sanson, my gods...” He let out his breath with relief as Sanson pulled his cock free, thick and erect and the tip already slicked with precome.

“Good,” Sanson murmured, mostly to himself—then turned his attention to the fastening of his own trews as Guydelot, panting, spat into the palm of his hand and worked it over his cock. Getting free enough of them at this angle, in this position, was more difficult than he had anticipated, but eventually... well, eventually he reasoned he knew how to mend a split seam and Guydelot’s face would probably be worth it.

_Ssssr-r-r-r-riiiip—!_

“Seven gates to seven _fucking_ hells, _Sanson_, do you _want_ me to come in my trousers?!”

It was.

“You won’t get to have me tonight if you do that,” Sanson said matter-of-factly, and Guydelot made a sound like a sob, frantically grasping for Sanson’s hips—he batted his hands away. “Hands up here.”

And he had meant, roughly (insofar as he was properly thinking anything through anymore), that Guydelot could grope his chest, push his shirt up and pay some attention to his nipples, perhaps, but instead he buried his hands in Sanson’s loose hair and tugged, and that was _even better_.

“_Guydelot—”_ His breath was hitching as he hurriedly pushed his smalls aside (the seams wound deliciously against his balls, the base of his cock, but not as deliciously as Guydelot wound locks of his hair around his fingers), adjusting his position until with twitching cock, trembling thighs—

“Gods, yes, _yes_...” Guydelot’s hands were trembling as Sanson enveloped him, pulling some strands too tightly but it enhanced the sensation (tight hair tight thighs tight squeeze tighter _please_) as he began to ride him, the push and the _pull_...

“I—mm, I _needed_ this,” Sanson panted, bracing himself with one hand on Guydelot’s chest and the other pumping his own cock. “Needed a—mmf...”

“Good fuck?” Guydelot’s voice was hitching, breathing in the same rhythm that he pulled at Sanson’s hair.

“Hah!—more like,” Sanson panted, grinning down at his bard, “I needed—nnnnneeded a bit of—_excitement_...”

Guydelot moaned with evident pleasure, his grip tightening and winding to the base of Sanson’s skull. “Glad I could provide...” He tried to use his leverage to pull Sanson’s head back and Sanson let him, exposing his throat to Guydelot’s hungry mouth.

“You’ll give me more before—before I’m through with you—” And there, he felt it in Guydelot’s gasp and bite and _yank_ before he felt the rush of seed inside him, and he couldn’t help but let out a breathless laugh.

“Give me a moment—Sanson, just a minute, and I can—” But there was no need for either mercy or apologies: Shamelessly Sanson tipped forward in Guydelot’s lap, taking advantage of how delicately they were bound together—kissing him hard, mouth to his jaw and rutting against the jut of his pelvis, thighs and arse pumping until spurts of his own seed splattered Guydelot’s belly, his lover gasping and cursing beneath him. “Fuck—_fuck_, you little devil...”

“Your little devil,” Sanson corrected him, and Guydelot chuckled hoarsely.

“If I knew then what I know now...”

“You know,” the pumpkin-headed apparition remarked to the towering Hellsguard woman behind her, “I really don’t think that’s an appropriate usage of that dear little demon’s talents.”

“And I really don’t think it had that much to do with the magicked glare, per se,” Rosy Rhubarb returned.

“Touché,” the ghost with a white pumpkin-head mused, and returned to watching the pair try to evade modesty-minded Wood Wailers on the way back to Sanson’s apartment.

**Author's Note:**

> hypothesis: sanson’s hair tie is actually a power limiter


End file.
